The Golf Course Mystery

CHAPTER VIII. ON SUSPICION

Colonel Robert Lee Ashley was used to surprises. This was natural, considering his calling, and at some of the surprises he was a silent spectator, while at others he furnished the surprise. In this case he served in his former capacity, merely noting the rather startled look on the face of Harry Bartlett when handed the subpoena to the coroner's inquest.

“I thought they weren't going to have any,” Bartlett repeated, but whether to himself in a sort of daze, to Colonel Ashley, or to the man from headquarters was not clear. At any rate Colonel Ashley answered him by saying:

“You never can tell what Jersey justice is going to do. Coroner's inquests are not usual in this state, but they are lawful.”

“But why do they consider one necessary?” asked Bartlett, as they prepared to enter the house of death.

“That, my dear sir, I don't know. Perhaps the county physician may have requested it, or the prosecutor of the pleas. He may want to be backed up by the verdict of twelve men before taking any action.”

“But if Mr. Carwell's death was due to suicide who can be held guilty but himself?”

“No one. But I thought you said there was a doubt as to its being suicide,” commented the detective.

“Miss Carwell doubts,” returned Bartlett; “and I admit that it does seem strange that a man of Mr. Carwell's character would do such a thing, particularly when he had shown no previous signs of being in trouble. But you can never tell.”

“No, you can never tell,” agreed Colonel Ashley, and none knew, better than himself, how true that was.

“But why should they subpoena me?” asked Bartlett.

“Don't fret over that,” advised his companion, with a calm smile. “You probably aren't the only one. A coroner's inquest is, as some one has said, a sort of fishing excursion. They start out not expecting much, not knowing what they are going to get, and sometimes they catch nothing—or no one—and again, a big haul is made. It's merely a sort of clearing house, and I, for one, will be glad to listen to what is brought out at the hearing.”

“Well, then I suppose it will be all right,” assented the young man, but the manner in which he looked again at the legal document was distinctly nervous.

“Had we better tell—her?” and he motioned to the house, on the steps of which they stood, Shag having pressed the bell for his master.

“Miss Carwell probably knows all about it,” said Colonel Ashley.

They found Viola waiting for them in the library, passing on their way the darkened and closed room which held all that was mortal of the late owner of The Haven—no, not quite all of him, for certain portions were, even then, being subjected to the minute and searching analysis of a number of chemists, under the direction of the county prosecutor.

“It was very good of you to come, Colonel Ashley,” said Viola quietly. “I appreciate it more than I can express—at this time.”

“I'm very glad to come,” said the colonel as he held her hand in his warm, firm clasp. “I am only sorry that it was necessary to send for me on such an occasion. Believe me, I will do all I can for you, Miss Carwell. Your father was my very good friend.”

“Thank you. What most I want is to clear my father's name from the imputation of having—of having killed himself,” and she halted over the words.

“You mean that you suspect—” began Colonel Ashley.

“Oh, I don't know what to think, and certainly I don't dare suspect any one!” exclaimed Viola. “It is all so terrible! But one thing I would like all father's friends to know—that he did not take his own life. He would not do such a thing.”

“Then,” said Colonel Ashley, “we must show that it was either an accident—that he took the fatal dose by mistake or that some one gave it to him. Forgive me for thus brutally putting it, but that is what it simmers down to.”

“Yes, I have thought of that,” returned Viola, and her shrinking form and the haunted look in her eyes told what an ordeal it was for her. “I leave it all to you, Colonel Ashley. Father often spoke of you, and he often said, if ever he had any mystery to clear up, that you were the only man he would trust. Now that I am alone I must trust you,” and she smiled at the colonel. It was something of her former smile—a look that had turned many a man's head, some even as settled in life and years as Colonel Ashley.

“Well, I'll do my best for the sake of you and your father,” replied the detective. “I don't mind saying that I hoped I was done with all mystery cases, but fate seems to be against me.

“Mind, I am not complaining!” he said quickly, as he saw Viola about to protest. “It's just my luck. And I can't promise you anything. From what Mr. Bartlett told me, there seem to be very few suspicious circumstances connected with the case.”

“I realize that,” answered Viola. “And that makes it all the stranger. But tell me, Colonel, haven't you often found that the cases which, at first, seemed perfectly plain and simple, afterward turned out to be the most mysterious?”

“Jove, but that's true!” exclaimed the former soldier. “You spoke the truth then, Miss Viola. My friend Izaak never put a statement more plainly. And that's the theory I always go on. Now then, let me have all the facts in your possession. And you too,” he added, turning to Bartlett. “You might remain while Miss Carwell talks to me, and you can add anything she may forget, while she can do the same in your case. I suppose you know there is to be a coroner's inquest?” he added to the girl.

“Yes,” she answered. “I have received a subpoena. I think it is well to have it, for it will show the public how mistaken a verdict arrived at when all the facts are not known may be. I shall attend.”

“I just received a summons,” said Bartlett, and he seemed to breathe more easily.

“Shag—Where's that black boy of mine?” exclaimed the colonel.

“I sent him to the servants' quarters,” said Miss Mary Carwell, coming in just then. “How do you do, Colonel Ashley. I don't know whether you remember me, but—”

“Indeed I do. And I remember that the last time I dined with you we had chicken and waffles that—well, the taste lingers yet!” and the colonel bowed gallantly, which seemed to please Miss Carwell very much indeed. “So you have looked after Shag, have you?”

“Yes. We have plenty of spare rooms, and I thought you'd want him near you.”

“I want him this moment,” said the detective. “If you will be so good as to send him here I'll get him to open my bag and take out a note-book I wish to use.”

A little later Colonel Ashley had thrown himself heart and soul into the “Golf Course Mystery,” as he marked it on a page in his note-book.

On the preceding page were the last entries in a case, the beginning of which was inscribed “The Diamond Cross Mystery.” It was thus that Colonel Ashley kept the salient facts of his problems before him as he worked.

Between them Viola Carwell and Harry Bartlett told the colonel such facts leading up to the death of Mr. Carwell as they knew. They spoke of the day of the big golf matches, and the exhilaration of Mr. Carwell as he anticipated winning the championship contest.

The scene at the links was portrayed, the little excitement among the parked cars, caused, as developed later, by a blaze in a machine standing next the big red, white, and blue car belonging to Mr. Carwell, and then the sudden collapse of Carwell as he make his winning stroke. The finding of some peculiar poison in the stomach and viscera of the dead man was spoken of, and then Viola made her appeal again for a disclosure of such truth as Colonel Ashley might reveal.

“I'll do my best,” he promised. “But I believe it will be better to wait until after the inquest before I take an active part. And I think I can best work if I remain unknown—that is if it is not published broadcast that I am here in my official capacity.”

To this Viola and Bartlett agreed. As neither of them had, as yet, spoken of bringing the colonel into the case, it was a comparatively easy matter to pass him off as an old friend of the family; which, in truth, he was.

So Colonel Ashley was given the guest chamber, Shag was provided with comfortable quarters, and then Viola seemed more content.

“I know,” she said to her aunt, “that the truth will be found out now.”

“But suppose the truth is more painful than uncertainty, Viola?”

“How can it be?” asked the girl, as tears filled her eyes.

“I don't know,” answered Miss Carwell softly. “It is all so terrible, that I don't believe it can be any worse. But we must hope for the best. I trust business matters will go along all right. I confess I don't like the forgetting, on the part of LeGrand Blossom, of attending to the bank matter.”

“It was probably only an oversight.”

“Yes. But it has started a rumor that your poor father's affairs might not be in the best shape. Oh, dear, it's all so terrible!”

But there were other terrors to come.

Following his plan of acting merely as a guest and an old friend of the family who had journeyed from afar to attend the funeral, Colonel Ashley went about as silent as though on a fishing trip. He looked and listened, but said little. He was not yet ready for a cast. He was but inspecting the stream—several streams, in fact, to see where he could best toss in his baited hook.

And it was in this same spirit that he attended the coroner's inquest, which was held in the town hall. Over the deliberations, which were, at best, rather informal, Coroner Billy Teller presided.

The office of coroner was, in Lakeside, as in most New Jersey cities or towns, much of an empty title. At every election the names of certain men were put on the ticket to be voted for as coroners.

Few took the trouble to ballot for them, scarcely any one against them, and they were automatically inducted into office by reason of a few votes.

Just what their functions were few knew and less cared. There used to be a rumor, perhaps it is current yet in many Jersey counties, that a coroner was the only official who could legally arrest the sheriff in case that official needed taking into custody. As to the truth of this it is not important.

Certain it is that Billy Teller had never before found himself in such demand and prominence. He was to act in the capacity of judge, though the verdict in the case, providing one could be returned, would be given by the jury he might impanel.

There was a large throng in attendance at the town hall when the inquest began. Reporters had been sent out by metropolitan papers, for Horace Carwell was a well known figure in the sporting and the financial world, and the mere fact that there was a suspicion that his death was not from natural causes was enough to make it a good story.

Billy Teller was, frankly, unacquainted with the method of procedure, and he confessed as much to the prosecutor, an astute lawyer. As the latter would have the conducting of the case for the state in case it came to a trial in the upper courts, Mr. Stryker saw to it that legal forms were followed in the selection of a jury and the swearing in of the members of the panel. Then began the taking of testimony.

The doctors told of the finding of evidences of poison in Mr. Carwell's body. Its nature was as yet undetermined, for it was not of the common type.

This much Dr. Lambert stated calmly, and without attempting to go into technical details. Not so Dr. Baird. He spoke learnedly of Reinsch's test for arsenic, of Bloxam's method, of the distillation process. He juggled with words, and finally, when pinned down by a direct but homely question from Billy Teller, admitted that he did not know what had killed Mr. Carwell.

Testimony to the same effect was given by several chemists who had analyzed the stomach and viscera of the dead man. There was a sediment of poison present, they admitted, and sufficient had been extracted in a free state to end the lives of several guinea pigs on which it had been tested. But as to the exact nature of the poison they could not yet say. More time for analysis was needed.

It was certain that Mr. Carwell had come to his death by an active agent in the nature of some substance, as yet unknown, which he either swallowed purposely, by accident, or because some one gave it to him either knowingly or unknowingly. This was a sufficiently broad hypothesis on which to base almost anything, thought Colonel Ashley, as he sat and listened in the corner of the improvised courtroom.

There was a stir of excitement and anticipation when Viola was called, but beyond testifying that her father was in his usual health when he went with her to the golf game, she could throw no light on the puzzle, nor could the dead man's sister or any of the servants.

“Call Jean Forette,” said the prosecutor, and the chauffeur, a decidedly nervous man on whom the excitement of testifying plainly told, came to the stand.

He made a poor showing, and there were several whispers that ran around the courtroom, but poor Jean's rather distressing manner was improved when Mr. Stryker took him in hand to question him. The prosecutor, observing that the man was more frightened than anything else, soon put him at his ease, and then the witness told a clear and connected story. He admitted frankly that because he had not the faculty, or, perhaps, the desire to drive the big, new car, he and his late employer were to part company at the end of the month. That was no secret, and there were no hard feelings on either side. It was in the course of business, and natural.

Yes, he had driven Mr. Carwell and his daughter to the links that day in the big red, white and blue machine. Mr. Carwell had been in his usual jolly spirits, and had greeted several acquaintances on the road.

Had they stopped at any place? Oh, yes. The golfer was thirsty, and halted at a roadhouse for a pint of champagne—his favorite wine. Jean had alighted from the car to get it for him, and Viola, recalled to the stand, testified that she had seen her father drink some of the bubbling liquor. It was obvious why she had not spoken of it before, and that point was not pressed. It was known she did not share her father's love for sports and high living.

A little delay was caused while the innkeeper was sent for, but pending his arrival some other unimportant witnesses were called, among them Major Wardell, who was Mr. Carwell's rival in the golf game.

Had he heard his friend speak of feeling ill? No, not until a moment before the final stroke was made. Then Mr. Carwell had said he felt “queer,” and had acted as though dizzy. The major, who was himself quite a convivial spirit, attributed it to some highballs he and his friend had had in the clubhouse just prior to the game.

Mr. Carwell had drunk nothing during his round of golf, and had associated during the progress of the game with no one except the players who were with him from the start to the finish. He was not seen to have taken any tablets or powders that might have contained poison, and a thorough search of his person and clothing after his death had revealed nothing.

At this point the innkeeper appeared. He testified to having served Mr. Carwell's chauffeur with a pint of champagne which Jean Forette was seen to carry directly from the cafe to the waiting automobile. The champagne was from a bottle newly opened, and the innkeeper himself had selected a clean glass and carefully washed it before pouring in the wine. He knew Mr. Carwell was fastidious about such matters, as he had often spent many hours in the roadhouse.

“LeGrand Blossom!”

Now something might come out. It was known that Blossom was Mr. Carwell's chief clerk, and more than one person knew of the impending partnership, for Mr. Carwell was rather talkative at times.

“Mr. Blossom,” asked the prosecutor, after some preliminary questions, “it has been intimated—not here but outside—that the financial affairs of Mr. Carwell were not in such good shape as might be wished. Do you know anything about this?”

“I do, sir.

“Tell what you know.”

“I know he was hard pushed for money, and had to get loans from the bank and otherwise.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Yes, it was. Before he bought the big car and the yacht he carried a good balance. But I told him—”

“Never mind what you told him or he told you. That is not admissible under the circumstances. Just tell what you know.”

“Well, then I know that Mr. Carwell's affairs were in bad shape, and that he was trying to raise some ready cash.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because he asked me to put a large sum into his business and become a member of the firm.”

“He asked you to invest money and become a partner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is not unusual, is it? Many a business man might do the same if he wanted to branch out, mightn't he?”

“Yes. But before this Mr. Carwell had offered to take me into partnership without any advance of money on my part. Then he suddenly said he needed a large sum. He knew I had inherited eleven thousand dollars and had, moreover, made from investments.”

“And did you agree to it?”

“I said I'd think it over. I was to give him my answer the day he died.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“What would have been your answer?”

“It would have been 'no.' I didn't think I wanted to tie up with a man who was on the verge of ruin; and if you ask me I'll say I think he committed suicide because he was on the verge of financial ruin and couldn't face the music, and—”

“That will do!” came sternly from the prosecutor. “We didn't ask your opinion as to the suicide theory, and, what is more, we don't want it. I ask, your honor,” and he turned to Billy Teller, who was secretly delighted at being thus addressed, “that the last remark of the witness be stricken from the record.”

“Rub it out,” ordered the coroner, looking over at the stenographer; and the latter, with a smile, ran his pen through the curious hooks and curves that represented the “opinion” of LeGrand Blossom.

He was allowed to leave the stand, and Harry Bartlett was called next. He nodded and smiled at Viola as he walked forward through the crowd, and Captain Poland, who was sitting in front, waved his hand to his rival. For the young men were friends, even if both were in love with Viola Carwell.

“Mr Bartlett,” began the prosecutor, after some unimportant preliminary questions, “I have been informed that you had a conversation with Mr. Carwell shortly before his death. Is that true?”

“Yes, we had a talk.”

Viola started at hearing this—started so visibly that several about her noticed it, and even Colonel Ashley turned his head.

“What was the nature of the talk?” asked Mr. Stryker.

“That I can not tell,” said Bartlett firmly. “But it had nothing to do with the matter in hand.”

There was a rustle of expectancy on hearing this, and the prosecutor quickly asked:

“What do you mean by 'the matter in hand'?”

“Well, his death.”

“Naturally you didn't talk about his death, for it hadn't taken place,” said Mr. Stryker. “Nor could it have been foreseen, I imagine. But what did you talk about?”

“I decline to answer.”

There was a gasp that swept over the courtroom, and Billy Teller banged the gavel as he had seen real judges do.

“You decline to answer,” repeated the prosecutor. “Is it on the ground that it might incriminate you?”

“No.”

“Then I must insist on an answer. However, I will not do so now, but at the proper time. I will now ask you one other question, and I think you will answer that. Did you resume friendly relations with Mr. Carwell after your quarrel with him that day?” and Mr. Stryker fairly hurled the question at Harry Bartlett.

If this was a trap it was a most skillfully set one. For there must be an answer, and either no or yes would involve explanations.

“Answer me!” exclaimed the prosecutor. “Did you make up after the quarrel?”

There was a tense silence as Bartlett, whose face showed pale under his tan, said:

“I did not.”

“Then you admit that you had a quarrel with Mr. Carwell?”

“Yes, but—”

Just at this moment Viola Carwell fainted in the arms of her aunt, the resultant commotion being such that an adjournment was taken while she was carried to an anteroom, where Dr. Lambert attended her.

“We will resume where we left off,” said the prosecutor, when Bartlett again took the stand, and it might have been noticed that during the temporary recess one of the regular court constables from the county building at Loch Harbor remained close at his side. “Will you now state the nature of your quarrel with Mr. Carwell?” asked Mr. Stryker.

“I do not feel that I can.”

“Very well,” was the calm rejoinder. “Then, your honor,” and again Billy Teller seemed to swell with importance at the title, “I ask that this witness be held without bail to await a further session of this court, and I ask for an adjournment to summon other witnesses.”

“Granted,” replied Teller, who had been coached what to answer.

“Held!” exclaimed Bartlett, as he rose to his feet in indignation. “You are going to hold me! On what grounds?”

“On suspicion,” answered the prosecutor.

“Suspicion of what?”

“Of knowing something concerning the death of Mr. Carwell.”

An exclamation broke from the crowd, and Bartlett reeled slightly. He was quickly approached by the same constable who had remained at his side during the recess, and a moment later Coroner Billy Teller adjourned court.